


Turn Away Thine Eyes

by Melanie_Athene



Series: To Err Is Human [22]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 07, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:52:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean summons a Gorgon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn Away Thine Eyes

While Dean was busy fine-tuning his covert operation, it just so happened Sam was carefully guarding a secret of his own. Not that he had any intention of concealing it from his brother forever. He just wanted to be sure, really sure, before he got Dean's hopes up. Dean had already suffered too much disappointment in his life. No way he should have to suffer more – not if Sam could help it! But the truth was becoming more and more apparent with every passing day, and the time of keeping this particular secret was thankfully drawing to a close. There had been too many secrets between them in the past. Time and circumstance had proven repeatedly that Winchester secrets never ended well. It was time to set this particular secret free. Sam only wished he could see his brother's face when he told him.

Well, maybe that was not meant to be, but Sam was pretty sure he could imagine how Dean would look wearing a big, goofy smile of delight. After all, Dean's joy would run a close second to his own current state of happiness. And that was his big secret: Sam Winchester was happy. Happy, because finally – _finally!_ – he was at peace: body, mind and soul.

Just as Castiel had advised Dean all those months ago, on that icy mountain top in Greece: “Blessings take many forms – as do healings. Who's to say the answer is an unequivocal no, if gratification is not instantaneous.” Well, it would seem the Hippocrene spring had lost none of its magic. Sam had indeed been granted healing – it just wasn't the form of healing they had requested. His eyes were still cold stone, and were likely to remain so for the rest of his life. But – and this was one hell of a big but to Sam's way of thinking – all the psychological damage Lucifer had caused was gone, all the turmoil that had plagued his mind extinguished as if it had never been. No need now for the wall Death had erected, the wall Castiel had cruelly breached and Sam had tried so valiantly to repair. No more waging an endless, relentless, internal war. No more nightmares. No struggling to get through days where even getting out of bed was major chore. No pretending that he had everything under control, when all he really wanted to do was lock himself away and howl in despair. That he had failed to make the repairs without supernatural assistance, as he had once hoped he might, was immaterial. He had fought the good fight. He had kept himself together until help could arrive. There was no shame in that. He had endeavoured to be cured. Now he truly was. That was all that mattered.

And though he had waited for the other shoe to drop, for the torment to resume, he was ready now to admit those days were gone. Sam Winchester was a new man – a different man, given all that he had been through, but he was ready to embrace what he had become. Ready to start the next phase of his life – whatever that might entail. After all, learning braille, learning all the million other things a blind man had to know, would be a snap compared to his life so far.

He was ready to accept the challenge. Hell, the newfound clarity of his mind was invigorating, almost intoxicating. Combine that growing euphoria with the pleasure of being physically active in the gym Dean had so kindly provided, and you had a combination that couldn't be beat. 

“Look out world,” Sam murmured. “I'm back. I'm really back, this time.”

_But I guess it won't hurt to wait a few more days before I share the good news._

 

~*~

 

“I'll only be gone a few days,” Bobby said, his voice muffled as he leaned over to check behind the driver's seat. “Ha! Got it,” he exclaimed, holding up an envelope bursting at the seams with scraps of paper. “I'd hate to have to double back to get my notes. Those wraiths aren't going to sit around twiddling their thumbs waiting on me, and damned if I'm letting some wet behind the ears hunters get their brains eaten.” He carefully tucked the envelope in the glove compartment and turned back to face Sam and Dean. “What was I saying? Oh. Yeah. Allowing for driving time, I should be back by next Friday. Saturday at the latest. Think you idjits can manage on your own 'til then?” He turned a particularly fierce scowl on Sam, not minding in the least that it was wasted on him. “Try not to burn down the house while I'm gone.”

The 'this time' went unspoken, but was clearly implied.

“Yes, sir,” Sam said meekly. “Sheesh, it was just a little kitchen fire. I was only seven. Who knew curtains would go up like that?”

“And you,” Bobby turned his scowl Dean's way, just in time to catch him trying to hide a grin. “Stay the hell out of my whiskey.”

“Yes, sir!” Dean offered the old hunter a jaunty salute.

“Idjits,” Bobby repeated, climbing into the truck without any further words of parting. The door didn't slam shut harder than was necessary. Nor did he cast worried looks in the rear view mirror as he drove away. And, no doubt about it, the sick, sinking feeling that churned in his gut was just the burrito he'd had for lunch. Indigestion wasn't a premonition. 

“Idjit,” he muttered under his breath, leaving exactly who he was referring to this time an unanswered question. 

After all, what could possibly happen in the short time he'd be gone? Those boys were grown-assed men. Experienced hunters. Apocalypse survivors, for fuck's sake. Of course, they did start as well as end it...

“Goddamned Winchesters!” Bobby growled. “I'd feel a hell of a lot better about this if Feathers was here to keep an eye on the pair of 'em!”

He almost turned around right there and then, instinct at odds with the need to pass his knowledge on to the next generation of hunters. But, yeah, wouldn't that just brand him the biggest mother hen of all time. He'd never live it down. So, instead of listening to his gut, he stepped on the gas and cranked up the heater, hoping that would ease the chills running up and down his spine.

Dean and Sam stood in the dooryard long after the old truck had rattled away.

“Bobby still keep the good stuff locked in the bottom desk drawer?” Sam inquired finally. 

“You know he does,” came Dean's quick reply.

 

~*~

 

In all the many, long years of his existence before Dean Winchester came into his life, the one word Castiel would never have used to describe Heaven was 'boring'. But that was the way he found it now. Pristine white upon pristine white, the only dabs of colour to be found normally sequestered away in those sections blessed with the presence of human souls. Of course, Joshua's garden was also a riot of scents and colour and Castiel had once spent countless hours there in peaceful contemplation. But now... now, there was no solace to be found in this once pleasant retreat. No shade of green in the garden could compare to the green of his lover's eyes. No flower's scent could rival the enticing aroma of his old leather jacket. No heavenly choir could equal his voice when he whispered 'Cas' as if that were the answer to his every prayer.

 _Please, Father,_ Castiel prayed, _I have foresworn all contact with Dean for the duration of my stay in Heaven. I have done all you have asked of me. Let me go home._

Home.

How ironic that an angel did not consider Heaven home.

But there was no trace of doubt in Castiel's mind. If 'home is where the heart is' then, now and forever, his heart belonged to Dean... longed to be with Dean. Oh, how he yearned to feel the human's heart beating against his chest as their lips met, and fire filled their veins...

A sudden wave of celestial consternation disrupted Castiel's musings and, at first, he feared his blasphemous thoughts had drawn the wrath of Heaven down upon his head. But as he listened more closely to his agitated brethren, and deciphered the cause of their ire, an answering tide of anger rose from within his very core.

His reunion with Dean would unfortunately have to wait a little longer.

There was a battle to be won.

 

~*~

 

Dean tipped his head back to drain the final drop of amber liquid in his glass, savouring the taste and the warm glow it spread throughout his body. Damn, but Bobby really did have some good stuff. No wonder he kept this bottle so well hidden, and left the rotgut out on the counter as a decoy.

Sam slid the bottle towards him, hearing his empty glass clatter to the tabletop, but Dean shook his head and pushed it back until it nestled in Sam's hand.

“I'm good,” he said softly. 

Sam frowned. Since when did Dean say no to a second round? Come to think of it, he'd been acting a bit odd all day: popping in and out of the house, up and down like a jack-in-the-box, unable to settle; muttering to himself under his breath, as if couldn't quite remember the words to a song; turning down pie in favour of a work-out session in the gym that had left Sam sweaty and breathless, but only seemed to intensify Dean's restlessness. Clearly the dude was on edge about something.

 _Maybe he's just pining for Cas? It has been awhile since they – Whoa! No way!_ Sam quickly derailed that train of thought. _I am not going to speculate about my brother's big gay sex life with an angel. I already know wa-aaay more than I ever wanted to know about that._

“I thought I might take a run into town,” Dean continued, amusement clear in his voice as he watched the slideshow of emotions playing across Sam's face. “Shoot a little pool. Maybe take in a movie. You'll be okay for a couple of hours... right?”

“I'm a big boy, Dean.”

“I know you are, Sammy.”

“It's Sam.”

“Whatever... Samantha.” 

A rough hand ruffled Sam's hair and, in the silence that followed him slapping the offending fingers away, he could almost feel the weight of Dean's stare. “What?” he muttered peevishly. “Do I have dirt on my face?”

“No more than usual,” Dean replied, his cocky tone as aggravating ever. But, this time, the hand that reached out to tousle Sam's shaggy mane was unusually gentle, and lingered ever so briefly.

“See you later, Sam,” Dean said, his footsteps squeaking their way across the kitchen tile.

“Huh,” Sam grunted, as the door clicked shut behind his brother, leaving him alone, totally alone, for the first time since he'd lost his eyesight. “What the hell, Dean?”

 

~*~

 

Dean would have preferred to take advantage of the Spring Equinox to perform his summoning ritual. However, in spite of the amazing difference having a sparring partner made, his training had still taken longer than anticipated. In all truth, though, it was probably just as well he hadn't attempted the rite any sooner. Having Bobby underfoot, poking his fingers in where they weren't wanted, would have been disastrous – almost as bad as having an argumentative angel around would have been. But everything had finally come together: both Bobby and Castiel absent for a prolonged period; himself in peak form. Tonight was even a full moon – a super full moon at that, in the sign of Libra. Even the stars were in alignment for his plan, celebrating the ideals of balance, fairness and diplomacy. And while it was too bad he couldn't act at 2:19 pm when the moon was at its perigee, moonrise would do just as well, what with it taking place in that 'magical in-between time' of dusk. Midnight would have been another auspicious hour, but he wasn't willing to leave Sam on his own for any longer than necessary. So sunset it was: 8:00 pm. With moonrise occurring at 8:23 that gave him a little less than half an hour as a window of opportunity in which to invoke the spell, but that should be more than ample time.

His mind a-buzz with a list of all he had to do, and the precise order in which it needed to be done, Dean quickly unpacked his duffle bag and began to set up a humble little altar in the centre of the room. Early on in the planning stages, he had decided to forgo animal sacrifice in favour of a less bloodthirsty approach. The last thing he needed was to trigger the Gorgon into some kind of a killing frenzy, driven rabid by the scent of fresh blood. And so, now, he arranged each carefully chosen offering with great deliberation: a sprig of laurel leaves, sacred to the entire panoply of Greek gods and goddesses; a jar of honey, long renowned as a favourite food of the gods and 'a celestial gift'' according to Virgil; a plump and juicy orange, considered by many scholars to be the 'golden apple' which grew in the garden of the Hesperides; the obligatory libation, in the form of a crystal goblet containing a blood-red wine; and, finally, a cluster of bluebells tied with a plain white bow, symbolic of humility, gratitude and the purity of his intent. Only when these items had been arranged to his satisfaction did he move on to the equally serious business of inscribing the necessary sigils. When the last line had been drawn, he stood for a moment in silence, debating whether or not he should turn off the lanterns he normally used when he worked in the barn at night, in favour of illuminating the room solely with the mellow glow of candlelight. In the end, he decided visibility was more important than mood. Lanterns and candles both cast their light upon the mirror lined walls, lighting every corner of the room.

8:00... 

Dean's wristwatch alarm chimed softly, and he started slightly at the sound. “Show time,” he whispered, flicking open his lighter to ignite a stick of frankincense-scented incense, catnip to the gods, according to the dreary, ancient Hellenic verses he had perused night after endless night in search of clues. One by one, then, he began to add the other ingredients he had gathered in a silver bowl he'd appropriated from the panic room closet.

“Euryale,” he said a few moments later, crumbling the final herb, feeling his nose crinkle at the pungent scent of thyme that lingered in the air and clung to his fingers. There was no going back now. “Euryale,” he repeated in a louder, firmer voice and confidently began his recitation, a simple spell he'd stumbled across online and had found to be both evocative and to the point:

      “Wherever you may be,  
       I appeal to you.  
       On the wings of words that fly  
       Across the distance,  
       Travel space and time  
       And appear in my presence.”

Raising his shield up above eye level, he stared expectantly into its mirrored surface, eyes directed to the sacred circle several feet behind him. But nothing happened. Nothing at all. The minutes ticked by, unremarkable in every sense of the word, and the weight of the shield tugged at Dean's arms, tempting him to lower his guard and resign himself to failure. But Dean stood firm, his resolve unbroken, patiently watching and waiting for the Gorgon to appear.

Time seemed to slow down the closer the count drew to 8:23. With but twenty seconds to go, a sudden, deep silence fell upon the old barn, the normal creaking of its timbers and the restless moaning of the wind fading away, as if nature herself held her breath.

A shiver of anticipation – of dread – made its way down Dean's spine, lifting the fine hairs on the back of his neck. And then, in the space of a heartbeat, the air behind him began to shimmer and ripple like heat waves racing across desert sands, like brilliant sunlight sweeping across an endless field of snow. Dean blinked, trying his best to keep his eyes in focus, trying to distinguish what exactly it was that he was seeing, but it stubbornly remained undefined. Just ever so slightly out of reach of his comprehension. Until suddenly, somehow, between one blink and the next, he found himself no longer alone.

Books and movies didn't do justice to the horror that was the Gorgon. Dean felt his stomach heave in revulsion as her scaly, golden body appeared in the mirrored shield he held in his hands – hands that trembled slightly, despite his best efforts to appear calm and self-assured. The creature's face was human and she might even have been considered beautiful, were it not for the writhing mass of coiled, living snakes which were her crowning glory, and the razor-sharp boar tusks that jutted from her jaw. Her lips were curved in the semblance of a smile as her gaze traversed the room. Clearly, his preparations amused her. Dean swallowed and shifted his stance to follow the Gorgon's reflection as she slithered towards the altar. The gifts he had laid out were swept aside with one contemptuous brush of a clawed hand. Nearby candles and their holders were also sent clattering to the floor, the hiss of the wicks as they sputtered and died echoed by snakes who seemed to revel in the destructive actions of their mistress. 

Damn, but the bitch was bigger than he'd expected. Easily twice Dean's height, her head almost brushed the lowest beams of the barn when she rose from her coils to better survey the mirrored room. Gold wings flared out from her shoulders, huge and scaled things that made an eerie chittering noise when they moved. For a few long moments she swayed in place, snakes hissing their commentary as they too gazed around, forked tongues flickering, tasting the air, and sharp eyes darting everywhere. Dean's skin crawled just to stand in their nightmarish presence, and he felt his own shoulders hunch in a vain attempt to make himself a smaller target. With every fibre of his being he wished he had Hades' helm of darkness to make him invisible or, failing that, a deep hole where he could crawl and hide from sight.

The Gorgon's attention shifted to the hunter, as if his growing sense of panic was a beacon glowing in the wilderness, drawing her home.

As Dean felt the full weight of Euryale's cold, relentless stare, he felt torn by two fierce desires: the first impulse being to flee, the second, more compelling urge the need to turn around and look the Gorgon squarely in the eye. Dean fought off both compulsions, knowing giving in to either option would surely set the beast upon him. In this cosmic game of cat and mouse that he had set in motion, it was painfully obvious that Dean Winchester was the mouse. But he was a mouse with a plan. He had to hold on to that hope, faint though it might be. _For Sam,_ the words played silently in his head, repeating over and over again: _For Sam._

And so Dean schooled his face into as pleasant a mask as he could manage, and forced himself to offer the greeting he had so carefully rehearsed.

“W-welcome, honoured one.” he said, the words sticking to his tongue as if coated with tar. Dean cleared his throat and continued, “I have invited you here today to request a favour.”

Euryale's smirk became an outright sneer. “Invited?” she said. 

Dean's hands clenched more tightly on his shield. How he yearned to trade its flimsy protection for the more substantial comfort of an angel sword. But the sword remained sheathed at his side. He would not be the first to show aggression. He would gladly humble himself before this creature if it led to the end of Sam's blindness.

“My brother was injured by your visit five months ago. I was hoping that you could... um... provide a cure.”

“And why,” the Gorgon said, in a voice that harmonized with the hiss of the snakes which framed her face, “would I do such a thing?”

“Because... you can. Because it's the right thing to do,” Dean replied. “Sam meant you no harm. Hell, he didn't even know you were there until you attac– uh, surprised him. I'm sure we can come to some kind of agreement.”

“Little human,” Euryale hissed. “Do you really think you are in any position to make demands? Do you honestly believe I care for what you think is right? I am a law unto myself.”

“And yet you came when you were called,” Dean snapped, anger giving him the strength to straighten his spine and answer challenge with challenge.

“I came,” Euryale growled, “but not at your bidding. Not at yours or any mortal's. I came because it suited me. Because it is in accordance with my desires.” 

“Cure my brother of his blindness and we can talk.”

“Give me what I seek and I will let you live.” The Gorgon rattled her folded wings in fury. “This is not a negotiation. This is your complete and utter surrender to my will.” 

_Of course you'd say that,_ Dean thought wearily. Well, diplomacy had been a long shot anyway. In his heart, he had always known it would come to this.

“Lay down your shield,” Euryale commanded. “Cast aside your sword and throw yourself upon my mercy.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then you will die.”

“How do I know you won't kill me anyway?”

“You don't know.” The Gorgon's smile was more terrifying than her scowl, seductive and venomous at the same time. No wonder, down through the ages, men had foolishly succumbed to her fatal attraction and been turned to stone.

Gripping his shield more tightly with his left hand, Dean slid his right hand to the hilt of his sword and eased the gleaming blade from its sheath. “Then I guess you're right,” he said quietly. “This is not a negotiation.”

The Gorgon was upon him before the final syllable left his lips. 

_Fast, oh God, she's fast,_ Dean thought as he ducked the sweep of a taloned claw that would have ripped his head from his body had he been a millisecond slower responding. Eyes closed, he pivoted on his heel, lashing out with an answering strike that Euryale easily avoided with the swift grace of a serpent and the cunning of a seasoned warrior.

Momentarily blind and disoriented, Dean tried to quell his rapid breathing so he might better hear. He dared not open his eyes until he knew exactly where the creature stood.

Euryale's mocking laughter pinpointed her location as being off to the left. Dean turned to the right and opened his eyes, his gaze seeking the mirrored wall for confirmation. He was just in time to see her launch a second attack upon him. Again Dean ducked and rolled, his blade flashing upwards as his eyes closed and his back hit the floor.

A shriek of outrage indicated he had not missed this time. Dean continued his roll until he bumped up against the base of a mirror. Again, he opened his eyes, seeking its reflection to tell him what the hell was happening. The Gorgon was also looking in a mirror, her disbelieving stare directed at the bloody stump nestled amidst her tangled mane.

Dean crawled slowly to his feet, the motion drawing Euryale's attention, her gaze turning glacial as it slid past the severed snake head which lay still twitching on the floor and focused fully upon him.

Without doubt, the game of cat and mouse was over. This time when the Gorgon launched herself towards the hunter, she moved in for the kill, striking hard and fast and furious.

Breath whooshed from Dean's lungs as he was knocked to the floor, helplessly pinned under the weight of heavy coils, his sword and shield sent skittering across the floor.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could and vainly tried to turn his face away from the Gorgon's hot, rancid breath; tried to free himself from the talons digging into his flesh, tearing gashes in his cheeks until metal rasped against bone.

They say that in the moments immediately preceding death, your life flashes before your eyes. Dean had seen a fair number of years on earth, even more in Hell. He had a wealth of memories to choose from, some good, some bad: his mother's face smiling down at him, filled with love and pride; the cold glint of Alastair's knife, the colder glint of his eyes; Sam, all gangly-legged and shaggy-haired; Sam laughing, crying, one bitch face morphing into another. But all that flashed though Dean's mind at this particular moment in time was the indescribable blue of his angel's eyes. His angel. His.

And maybe this wasn't the way he'd envisioned their reunion happening – Castiel was going to be majorly pissed that he'd managed to get himself killed... again. And maybe there was no chance that the angel would arrive in time to prevent his death – hell, he didn't know if any of his other messages had gotten through, so why should this one? But, nevertheless, Dean would die with the name of his lover on his lips: a cry for help; a warning that he was making his way to Heaven; despair and hope, fear and love, all these emotions and more wrapped up and vented in one fierce cry.

“Cas!” he screamed. “Cas!”


End file.
